


presumption

by deadlybride



Series: zmediaoutlet [24]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Episode: s12e05 The One You've Been Waiting For, Season/Series 12, rape mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 12:02:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17406548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: After killing Hitler, Sam and Dean take a day to celebrate. Sam's got a plan for how the evening's going to go.





	presumption

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SMPC on Livejournal.

After they kill Hitler—or, no, Sam thinks to himself. After _Dean_ kills Hitler, because it's not like Dean's going to let him forget it for the next ten years. They're driving even faster than usual, a bright morning in Ohio blurring into a brighter afternoon in Indiana, and Sam's suffering through Dean's celebration mixtape in mostly-good humor. They saved the day, more or less. Girl survived, and the Thule were defeated, and—

"Hey, Sam," Dean shouts, grinning at the open road. The windows are half-down and the highway wind's loud, almost as loud as If You Want Blood screaming through the speakers. "Sam! Guess what!" Sam rolls his eyes, very deliberately, but Dean's undimmed. "I killed Hitler!"

"No way!" Sam calls back, and shakes his head as Dean laughs and cranks the volume a notch higher. Hard not to follow Dean into that good of a mood, no matter how ridiculous he gets. They've got nowhere to be, other than back home, and they saved the day, and the bad guys lost, and they lived. Dean lived. Another night conquered. Anymore, that's enough for Sam. No matter what size of bad guy they took down. Dean's drumming along on the steering wheel and Sam taps his thumb on his thigh, letting the wind blow his hair back. Pie for breakfast. Days can start worse.

Lunch outside Chicago, deep dish that's worth waiting almost an hour for. Sam starts looking for a new job. Across the table, Dean's following football commentary with every evidence of enjoyment, nursing his beer, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Sam keeps watching him instead of reading. Sometimes he's just—pinned down. A thumb right on top of his heart, slowing the beat down and reminding him, look. Look, here. Look what you've got. Dean's eyes flick over and catch Sam watching, and these days Sam doesn't look away, because he doesn't have to. "Aren't you supposed to be finding something exciting for me to kill?" Dean says, bottle tipped toward Sam's laptop. "Not that you could ever top, uh, hi," he stumbles, interrupted by the waitress replacing Sam's iced tea.

"Thank you," Sam says, smiling at the girl (a blush—teenagers). He squeezes lemon into the tea, catching the seeds with his fingers. Once she's gone he points a concerned look at Dean. "You know, maybe we should've been a little less selfish back there." Dean frowns. "Called Aaron, gotten him to come out and kill the big guy. He's actually Jewish. You kind of stole his thunder."

Dean's eyes get big and he sets his beer down with a clack on the metal table. "No, you don't get to PC me," Dean says, warning. Sam bites the inside of his cheek. "We couldn't wait, okay—look, I mean, I'll call him and let him know, happy Hanukkah or whatever, but—look—finders keepers, damn it!"

"Finders keepers?" Sam says, and can't keep his grin down anymore, and Dean's mouth drops open before he kicks Sam under the table. "Ow!"

"You suck, you know that?" Dean relaxes back into his half of the booth again, swiping his beer off the tabletop. Sam gets another offended point of the bottle. "Chief pin-holder in the balloon factory, that's you."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam says, sucking the lemon juice off his fingers, and he's rewarded by Dean's eyes dropping quick, a flick of tongue over Dean's lower lip. He turns back to the football but his ears are pink. Sam wipes his fingers dry on his jeans and smiles smaller down at the laptop. Yeah, Dean's in a good mood. Better mood than he's been in for—weeks. Longer. Sam's missed it. Truth is, Sam's missed a little more than that, but it hasn't exactly been easy lately. Maybe that's about to turn around.

Their mom being around, while it lasted, that was—yeah. Weird didn't begin to cover it. Now Dean's texting her and Sam's getting a word in, once in a while, and things are better. Dean's acting less like the universe sucker-punched him every morning. Lots of things are going wrong, lots of things always are, but this past week or two has been okay. Finally. Sam's ready for things to get back to normal. At least, as normal as things ever are. He's long since stopped pretending that _real_ normal's on the menu, and he wouldn't want it even if it were. Dean downs the last few swallows from his bottle and Sam watches his throat, his thumb swiping the wet off his lip. Normal really is overrated.

When lunch is over, it looks like the Broncos are going to have a decent season and Sam's got a line on something that could sort of maybe be a case up by St. Cloud. "Worth checking up on, anyway," he says, and Dean shrugs and slaps cash on the table and they're gone, out of the restaurant, out of the town.

Feels like—years ago. Before the bunker, maybe. Driving easy, the world a bright smear and the sun setting over the Impala's hood. Music playing and both of them in a good mood and nowhere to be, not really. Sam closes his eyes, slouches way down and tips his head back on the seat, his knees pressed up against the dash. "Oh, you passin' out on me?" Dean says, shoving at his shoulder, and Sam smiles, rocks with the push. They're on Zeppelin now, because Dean doesn't know how to celebrate without Robert Plant. "Pick a motel before we get there," Sam says back, "I don't want to sleep in the car tonight." This version of Bring It On Home is off of _How the West was Won_ , Sam's pretty sure. Sounds about right.

Sam's got a plan, or something like it. His turn to celebrate, too. They pull into St. Cloud around nine that night. Starting to get colder. Dean wants to pick up a game of pool, just for fun, and so Sam follows him to a dive and has two beers sitting with his back to the bar, eyes on Dean's hands on the cue, on his hips, on the quick wide grin. He's not hustling, because hustlers aren't supposed to show off nearly that much. At least the guy's not too upset about losing. Dean pops his eyebrows at Sam, tipping his cue back and forth between his hands, and Sam sighs for show and slides off the stool, brings over two fresh beers and says, "You look like a dork, you know that?"

"Takes one to know one," Dean says, snatching the bottle out of his hand, "and just for that I'm not gonna let you break."

"You never let me break," Sam says, leaning a hip against the hard plastic of the corner pocket, and Dean racks them quick and professional and gives Sam a shit-eating smile. The _crack_ of the break is so clean and perfect that Sam feels it in his chest. The nine drops into the other corner. "You're stripes," he says, bringing his bottle to his mouth, and Dean looks at him with the tip of his tongue between his teeth and nods, smile tipping somehow, turning into some other thing.

Country playing, here, but at least it's old country, twangy and unpolished. Dean's going in order, just to be an asshole, but he's not calling his shots because it's not like Sam doesn't know what he's going to go for. Sam crosses his arm over his chest. Ten a tricky angle into the side pocket, eleven a bankshot that slams into the far corner so hard the guy at the closest table looks over, startled. Twelve's lined up easy for a smooth kiss into the corner opposite Sam, and Dean comes around the table, looks from the cue up into Sam's face. Sam raises his eyebrows and doesn't budge, and Dean huffs, shakes his head, and comes in close, leans his hip on the table and angles the cue across his chest, sights down the wood to pop the cue with just a touch of English and it—yeah, the twelve drops in like a dream… and the cue ball follows, right after.

"Shit," Dean mutters. Sam knocks him with his hip, steals the cue out of his hand. He's glaring at the pocket, like the scratch was its fault. "Made me do that."

"Keep telling yourself that," Sam says, just behind Dean's ear. Dean gives him a quick glance, startled, and Sam rounds the table to reset the cue. Maybe a little much, for being in public. They don't, usually. He just can't help it. First time in ages everything's felt like it was going right. He picks his spot and lines up to knock the one into the left-side pocket. "Tell you what," he says, leaning in to check the angles. "Loser buys the next round."

"Sure you got the cash on you?" Dean says, propping his elbow on the nearest stool. He's watching Sam, now, careful. Sam takes a breath, and smiles, and takes the shot without looking. At the smooth click of the ball dropping Dean shakes his head. "You're on, sucker."

Little curl of warm pools in Sam's belly. "I'd like an IPA, I think," he says, thoughtful, and Dean rolls his eyes and comes in closer to lean over the table and mock Sam's skills, and—yeah. Yeah, this is going to happen.

Motel's a hole, like most of them are, and that's familiar too. Two beds, because that's what they always get, what they've always gotten whether things between them were good or bad, and Dean's complaining about Sam cheating again while he drops his jacket on the bed closer to the door, the six-pack they stopped off for clinking down onto the mattress. Sam keeps chewing the inside of his lip. God, it's been a long time. Since before—what? Before Mom came back, definitely. But even before that, when Chuck—God—Chuck, whatever, when he (He?) was in the bunker with them, too. No privacy, no space, and then after. Lucifer and Amara and everything.

Dean's dumping his pockets on the bedside table and gives Sam a look where he's just leaned into the entryway. "What, are you part of the architecture now? Come in already."

Sam comes in. There's a radio on the little kitchenette counter—why?—and he flicks it on, tunes it to the first oldies station he finds. The Stones, okay. "You want to shower?" he says, and Dean pauses and rubs the back of his neck before he says, "No, you go ahead."

Easing in slow. Okay. Sam takes his time, cleans everything, stands there with his arms wrapped around himself to stretch his back and lets the shower pound into the center of his shoulderblades. A little higher than most showers. It's nice. He shaves and tucks his hair behind his ears and thinks about that day, in the cemetery. When he thought—when Dean looked at him, and in front of Castiel and everyone they couldn't say a thing. What would there be to say, when it came to the end. Somehow he'd never thought about it. What he remembers is Dean's breath, warm on his shoulder through his coat. He touches that spot, leaning hard for a second against the sink, and he just—wants him. All his stupid life, no matter when he tried to ignore it, when it had to be set aside. Blood on white cloth. Undeniable.

When Sam comes out, Dean's sitting on the bed with a beer at his left hand, his boots off, Sam's laptop on his knees. The radio's turned off. Just as well, a screechy car commercial during sex isn't exactly a turn-on. "You better not be looking at porn," Sam says, leaning into the doorway, and Dean's eyes jump from the screen to skitter startled up Sam's bare legs, over the towel to his bare chest. The light's not great in here but it's enough to see his throat bob. That's enough for Sam.

"Not, uh," Dean tries, stumbles, and puts the laptop on the bedside table. He sits up more, one foot dropping down to the floor, and when Sam sits down on the edge of the bed by him he takes a deep breath, like he's gearing up for something. Skittish, somehow, and Sam goes slow, puts careful fingers to Dean's knee and then slides up, to his thigh, wrapping his fingers around to the back of the solid muscle. Dean's lips part and Sam plants his hand on the bed, leans in. Dean's smell, day's-end strong, the fine lines beside his eyes that he frowns at in the mirror when he thinks Sam can't see. His jaw, his mouth. Sam licks his lips, leans in and presses his mouth to Dean's—finally, god, so soft and careful it feels like—well, not the first time, that was so rough both of them bled. It feels like something else new, something that curls its hand around Sam's heart, and Dean puts both hands to Sam's bare chest and kisses him back, once, and then pulls away and says, soft and uncertain, "You don't have to, Sammy."

It doesn't make sense for a second. "Hm?" Sam hangs there, close, and when he blinks Dean's eyes are pinned firmly down at his own lap, and Sam does pull back an inch or two, then, his brain catching up. He's already at half-staff just being this close. "What do you mean?"

His back's already to the headboard, but Dean scoots back toward it anyway. "I just—" His jaw clenches, in that way where he's frustrated and trying not to show it. "You just, you don't have to—to do this. Come on, we're having a few brews, we can catch a movie or something, it's a good night."

He still isn't looking up, something fascinating apparently happening in that grease-spot on his jeans. Sam frowns, straightening up. "It's a good night," he repeats. He lets his hand fall away from Dean's leg and he does get a glance, for that, embarrassed almost—or worried? Some variable's missing from this equation, some detail he doesn't know. In their lives, Dean has actually rejected him twice, and once Sam deserved because he was being jealous and an idiot—same thing, basically—and the other—"Are you hurt?" he says, pulling his knee up on the bed, looking Dean over more carefully. He didn't think anything had happened, certainly not anything like _that_ , but Dean's managed to hide things from him before.

"No, I'm not—" Dean rolls his eyes, swivels around on the bed so he's got two socked feet on the carpet, his elbows on his knees. "I'm just—I'm just, you know, I'm trying to say. You don't have to, okay, I'm not—we don't have to."

He's all tension. Sam wishes now that he were wearing a shirt. Towel seduction works a lot better with a receptive audience. He knots his hand in the towel, makes sure it stays in place, scoots a few inches further away on the bedspread. The air's cold on his damp shoulders, a drip of water coursing down from his hair leaving a trail of ice. "Are we—done?" he says, trying to keep his voice neutral. Hard, when it feels like the bottom's falling out of the world.

Sex isn't everything. Sex isn't even in the top five things, though Dean would—he thought—berate him for saying so. Ever since their dad died, though, that's been part of them, part of how they talked to each other, and no matter how bad it got that was something they always understood, with each other. Even if it hurt. Even if it sometimes was miserable, after. Dean shakes his head, rubs his hands over his face, and this isn't _I'm tired_ or _I've got a headache_. Dean insists that sex is good for headaches, anyway. Sam would get up, would move away and let him have space, except that for a few seconds he's not sure his legs will work. He doesn't know how to lose this, too.

"I don't want you do anything you don't want to do," Dean says, deliberate, like he's been practicing it, and Sam's so turned around now he doesn't even know what's going on. Dean's shoulders lift, a huge breath taken in, and then he sits up and looks Sam square-on. Facing something he can't stand, but doing it anyway. Sam never wanted that look turned on him, ever again. "Cas told me, when he healed you. I didn't want to say anything, not with Mom there and everything—"

Sam cuts a hand through the air. "Cas told you what?"

Dean blinks, jaw working again. "That Brit bitch," he says, after a second. "He saw, somehow. That she made you—that she—god, Sammy, don't make me say it."

The last month shifts, tilting so hard on its axis in Sam's memory that he literally can't speak. Dean, worried and furious. Ready to burn down the British Men of Letters, angrier even than Sam was, and distant, focused on their mom, and then focused on the loss of her. Hardly looking Sam in the eye. "I thought it was because Mom was here," Sam says, finally. "Not because Toni fucked me."

Dean closes his eyes and the blank confusion locking Sam into himself disappears in an instant. "Are you kidding?" he says. "Are you—what? Are you holding that against me?"

He stands up, a surge of _something_ rocketing into his chest. Disbelief, mainly, and he really goddamn wishes he weren't just wearing a towel.

"No," Dean says, and whatever's in Sam's face must broadcast that it's pretty hard to believe because Dean stands up, then, running his hands over his head to hook behind his neck. "No. God, Sam! Give me more credit than—I just, I remembered that time in Ridgefield and I just…" He trails off, closes his eyes like something's paining him. "Not this time."

Ridgefield. Sam takes a step back, has to look away from Dean's face, giving himself space to think. Ridgefield. What happened? They were there—years ago, and a lifetime crammed between then and now, and he doesn't remember whatever could be putting that so-sorry expression on Dean. That's for later, though, or never, because the injustice of right this second is still bubbling up his throat. "What happened with Toni didn't even happen," he gets out. "It was all in my head, or—or in her head, some vision. Not real. When I woke up I still had my damn jeans on, Dean. I don't deserve to get punished for that."

Under his breath, Dean says, "Shit," and Sam looks up to find him still half-curled over himself, hands braced behind his head. Posing for the police. He's staring at the floor, looking miserable. "Just because it didn't happen doesn't mean it didn't happen."

The pool of come slipping down his thigh where it was trapped inside his cold wet jeans. Sam's well aware. "I get to decide that," he says, and it comes out a lot sharper than he means it to. Dean's eyes jump up to his face. "So. You're trying to, what? Spare my feelings?" Dean's jaw clenches so hard it looks like it hurts. No wonder he's bad at poker. So many fucking tells. Sam folds his arms over his chest. "Time out, for my own good? I'm not a kid anymore, Dean."

His eyebrows swoop together, his eyes going tight. "I know, _Sam_ ," he says, hands dropping down. "I just didn't want to fuck up this time, okay, sue me."

Frustrated—well, fine, Sam is too. Dean's shoulders square up like he's ready for a fight, and Sam feels some retort leaping up to his tongue before he bites it down, physically, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. His heart's beating hard, suddenly, the annoyance too strong, and this wasn't supposed to go this way, damn it. "Damn it," he says, on an explosion of breath, and then he takes the two long paces across the ugly carpet and gets right in Dean's space, makes him crane his head back to keep meeting Sam's eyes. He's flushed, upset in the tight line of his mouth, but he's standing toe to toe with Sam and he's not backing down. "I want to have sex with you," Sam says, plain, slow like Dean's simple. That always drives Dean nuts and, sure enough, his eyelids flicker like he wants to sock Sam in the jaw. "That good enough? Need me to write out a contract?"

"Fuck off, Sam," Dean says, and Sam grabs him by the jaw and ducks down and kisses him. Hard press of their mouths together, Dean almost snarling for a second before his lips part, easy. They always do. Sam licks in, shoves his tongue in and presses close, his other hand dropping to pull Dean in by the small of his back. Dean's hands land on his waist, digging in, and when Sam scrapes his teeth over Dean's lip he gets a gasp, fingers going tight enough that it hurts, just a little. He's leaning into Dean, leaning over him, and when Dean takes a staggering step back they move together, his thighs pressing right up against Dean's, and there's a jostle when Dean runs into the table between the two beds and they nearly tip over. Sam has to slam his hand against the wall above the lamp, Dean keeping upright by his grip on Sam's waist. The towel drops and Dean yanks back from Sam's mouth, pants up into his face, hot puffs of beery air, his eyes searching Sam's. Still on edge, and Sam is too, and that's fine with Sam if it's fine with—and Dean lifts up and finds his mouth again, plush warm welcome, biting Sam this time, and Sam pulls them upright and gets his hands on Dean's ass, squeezing hard through the denim. Yes, yes—fuck, finally. This is all he wanted.

Not—everything, though. Sam wraps an arm around Dean's waist and spins them around, kisses Dean one more time and then shoves him so he falls back onto the empty bed. "Fuck," Dean gasps out, losing his air, but he starts wrestling his shirts off when Sam goes for his belt. Buckle undone, unzipped, and Sam shoves his hand down under the waistband of his boxer-briefs and finds that familiar hot curve of his dick, trapped and needing, not hard all the way yet but getting there. Dean's slow to rise, now, and Sam's patient most of the time but now he grips him hard and insistent, leans over the bed and meets Dean popped up on his elbows, kisses him filthy, sucks his tongue once with a nasty spit noise that makes Dean's hips flinch up into his grip. Yeah. "Stay right here," Sam says against his mouth, threat under it, and Dean groans when Sam lets him go.

Bag, bag—there, on the other bed, and Sam unzips and dumps it out, shoving away his half-clean shirts and socks until he finds his dopp kit and in there, yes, the lube he'd been carrying hopeful for the last how many hundreds of miles of crisscrossing this fucking country. When he turns around Dean's shoving his jeans and briefs down, his pretty dick laying heavy and hard across his hip while he struggles to get the tangle of fabric down his thighs and Sam's mouth floods so fast with spit that he has to swallow before he can breathe again. No, though, not this time. He knocks Dean's hands away and knees up quick on the bed, sinking deep into the cheap mattress on either side of Dean's hips, and he grabs Dean's wrists and holds him still while he kisses him again. Dean lifts up into his weight, makes a small noise into his mouth. He's always liked being held, being held down, and Sam's never minded taking full advantage of that fact. Sam's dick presses in against Dean's thigh and Dean tries to spread his legs, squirming under Sam. Good plan—great plan, normally. Not tonight, though. Sam's got a point to prove. He drags his mouth over Dean's jaw, Dean breathing fast and heavy while Sam bites under his ear, bites his throat and sucks a harsh kiss against the sudden arch of his collarbone when his shoulders curve in.

It's hard to sit up, to push away and let cold air whoosh between them, but he does it. Dean's open-mouthed, staring up at him. Sam lets go of one wrist to fish on the bed for the lube and Dean's hand finds his chest, pets down until he gets his hand loose around Sam's dick. Light squeeze, familiar, and it feels—god, really good. Sam fucks into the grip and leans down over Dean, presses his dick down into the soft low curve of his belly, pushing over that warm skin. His balls lurch; his gut wants more. Dean's hand comes up to Sam's pec, rubbing, and his eyes are heavy enough now that he looks half-drunk. Perfect. Sam drops another kiss onto his mouth, a suck to his lower lip that drags out a soft moan, and then he fumbles open the lube one handed and lifts up, drizzling it all over Dean's dick, his balls, making a terrible mess and making Dean shiver, too, his skin shuddering up against Sam's. He drops the bottle on the bed and wraps his hand tight, jerking him slow and deliberate, dragging the skin, rubbing under the crown with his thumb, and Dean's wrist twists against his grip, his hips writhe between Sam's thighs. "Shit," he breathes, "god, Sam," and it's slick and hot, perfect. Sam looks down between them, Dean's dick shining in the shadow of his body, gleaming at the tip—mm, leaking already. He sits up higher, lets Dean's other arm go so he can swipe a finger over the wet and take a taste—bitter-salt, his mouth watering for it while Dean groans wildly and grasps at his thigh, his hip.

"Yeah," Sam says, splaying his hand over Dean's belly, and Dean reaches for him but he shakes his head. He lets go of Dean's dick and reaches behind himself, slick fingers finding his asshole and rubbing, pressing, and he watches Dean's face while he does it so he can see the realization dawn. It's slow in coming, Dean dick-stupid and wanting, but it comes—and it's good, Dean's eyes going wide and his hands sliding to Sam's hips, holding tight. Sam pushes inside, quick with two fingers, and oh—oh, it's weird, it always is. The nerves light up and his gut twists, his dick blood-full and still needy. They don't do it this way around, hardly ever, but when Sam wants it Dean's more than willing, and right now Sam's certainly not going to be denied. He pushes the wet inside, his hand so slick with lube he's making a mess. Dean's sopping wet already, so when he knees forward and grabs Dean around the base it's easy, almost, and he rubs the giving head against himself once, twice, just to see Dean's face go slack and wondering and then he—pushes, oh, down, breaking himself open in a not-so-smooth slide, letting his head drop down between his shoulders, feeling the weirdness of it all the way up his spine. God. Dean's hands pet down his thighs, slide back up and take his dick in a two-handed grip, and Sam's legs shudder before he gets used to it.

He gets his mouth wet, rolls his head on his shoulders. "Good?" he says, opening his eyes finally, and Dean huffs, searching his face. Sam covers Dean's hands with his, squeezes them. Inside him it's a strange throb, sticky-parted, and it hurts. He pulls Dean's hands off his dick, laces their fingers together, rocks his hips up and back down, a bare inch of tight drag that makes Dean's hands clench and his eyes flutter, and—ah, yeah. That's why people do this. Not his favorite, never will be, but oh, it's not bad, and he leans forward, carries Dean's hands with him and presses them flat to the bed on either side of Dean's head and starts to move, his dick pressed down into Dean's belly and grinding against the faint trail of hair, his body loosening up bit by bit. A kiss against Dean's jaw, the corner of his mouth, and Dean's breath is coming hard and deliberate, his teeth tug into his lip. "Hey," Sam murmurs, lifting up a little higher and pushing down, circling his hips. The sting's amazing but it feels—yeah. His gut pulses and he's all the way hard again, a smear of wet slicking up Dean's belly. "Tell me. Feel good?"

"Fuck, Sammy." Dean's fingers tighten on his. Sam kisses the toothmarks on his lower lip, nudges his nose against Dean's cheek. Dean's hips lift, a questioning little shove with his heels braced on the floor, but Sam shakes his head and Dean groans, subsides. When Sam picks his head up enough that he can see, Dean's ears are dark red, blush streaked down his throat, his eyes so spread-pupil dark that there's almost no color. "Yeah, feels good. Dick."

Sam grins at him, spreads his knees on the bed more. Better angle, his gut melting into a pool of good intense heat. Still a sting but Dean's moving smooth, now, and he's found a groove now, lifting up just enough to really feel it, his body clinging tight and humming every time he seats himself down again. With their hands occupied there's no way he's getting off just from this but that's not the goal—he clenches, deliberately, and Dean lets out a gut-punch noise, staring up at him shocked, and yeah—yeah, it's working, just fine, and he does it again, lifts up and slams back down, his thighs starting to feel that long-workout ache, Dean starting to shake under him, his eyes tight at the corners and sweat gleaming all over, temples and throat. Beautiful. Sam gulps air, keeps going, lets go of one of Dean's hands to palm over his cheek, his throat, a possession in him that he usually doesn't—and Dean doesn't grab him but just fists his freed hand into the splotchy blue of the comforter, a whining edge to his panting breath. God, Sam wants—he wants to come and he wants to keep this going in equal measure, and he grinds his ass back into the press of Dean's hips and feels it, his gut all wrapped up tight in itself like a tightening knot. He slides his thumb over the lump of Dean's throat and slips it up into the wet parting of his mouth and somehow it's that, it's that. Dean's hips flinch, shove up into his awkwardly, and he breathes _oh fuck_ garbled over Sam's skin and Sam clenches and squeezes his hand and leans down close and Dean unloads up into him, groaning loud, his hips twitching up and the stroke going slick, slicker.

A fist in Sam's stomach. He kisses Dean, shoves in past his panting, and when he drags his hips up, drags off, he eats the strangled noise before it can leave Dean's lips. He feels broken-open, soft and weird, and he clenches on nothing and feels the strange drip start, down the inside of his thigh. "Fuck," he says, pushing up, and Dean blinks at him bleary-eyed and then puts a weak hand on his hip, pulls, and oh—oh, yeah, that'll do it. Sam knees his way up the bed and cups a hand behind Dean's head and feeds his dick straight into that wet _perfect_ heaven, oh—he has to hold Dean's head with both hands and Dean grips his hip, strains up, and Sam fucks forward careful as he can and Dean's still too uncoordinated to work him right but just the slick lovely slide of his tongue is gonna be enough, his lips wrapping around, the heat and the suck in when Sam pushes maybe too deep and Sam's balls lurch and clutch up and he holds Dean in place and his belly shudders and oh— _god_ there it is, finally, finally, and Dean moans and holds still and works his tongue under the head until Sam can barely keep himself upright. He flails one hand down to the mattress, fucks in one more time before he pulls back, lets Dean breathe. He can hardly breathe, himself. He squeezes the back of Dean's neck, looks down, and Dean's mouth is dark red to match his cheeks, his eyelashes a dark smear. He licks his lips and lifts up, catches the heavy hanging head of Sam's dick again and sucks it, soft, tongue flicking against the slit, and Sam's thighs shudder hard, his balls trying to give up more than he's got. Fuck, Dean.

He flops off, once Dean lets him go, and with whatever strength left he pulls Dean up with him, drags them both so they're lying together, no matter that they're on the bed at a completely fucked-up angle. Between them they shove Dean's jeans off the rest of the way and then Sam's free to pull him in close, gets an arm under his head and the other around his back and dips down and licks the taste of himself out of that soft mouth. A hand slides up his side, clutches in his hair. Dean sighs against his lips, satisfied, and Sam pulls back, tips his forehead against Dean's. They breathe against each other. Dean's dick presses sticky against his stomach and Sam's leaking, wet and nasty. This is the best he's felt in… he can't remember how long.

Dean's head tucks down, his shoulder curving in. He slides his hand around, touches Sam's chest. A finger against his tattoo. Sam puts his lips to Dean's hair. Sweat and him. Another thing he missed.

"What was Ridgefield," he says, finally. Dean's hand curls into a fist and Sam draws a circle into the sweaty cooling skin between his shoulderblades, soothing. "Don't want to fight. Just, tell me?"

The fist drags down, the curled edge of Dean's knuckles pressing into Sam's sternum. "Back when your head went through the blender," he says, eventually. "After the wall blew up."

Those days—they're a blur. Lucifer, popping up in every dark corner, and the constant bloody reminder of what was real and what wasn't. Easier then, in some ways. At least then he could know Lucifer was still trapped. His fingers ache and he realizes he's digging them into Dean's back, in a way that has to be painful, only Dean doesn't make a sound. He lays his hand flat, strokes down to the dip above his ass.

Dean sighs. "We were—I was messed up, out of it. You'd had one of your dreams, where you weren't really sure what was real, and you told me something that happened. Something from the cage."

Sam picks his head up, puts his chin on top of Dean's head. Breathes the cooler, cleaner air. Not a lot of good memories, there. He still doesn't remember, whatever night Dean's talking about. They fucked around a lot, in that weird year between his mind staggering toward insanity and before Dean left him again, disappeared to Purgatory. Dean drank too much, and did other things Sam didn't want to look at too closely. Sam just whiteknuckled it to keep it together. Didn't always work. "What was it?" he says, and immediately wishes he hadn't.

Doesn't matter; Dean doesn't say. His knuckles drag down and he slips his hand over Sam's ribs, holding. Long minute of quiet and then Dean takes a deep breath, his thigh shifting against Sam's. "This time," he starts, and shakes his head. "I didn't want to—to fuck it up, this time."

In Sam's memory, they never talked about what happened in the cage, not really. Same way they never really talked about what happened to Dean in hell. It was bad. It was beyond imagining until it, horribly, wasn't. Ridgefield, that was a month before Sam's trip to the mental hospital, and they'd been reunited long before that, and he can only guess at whatever horrible detail stuck in Dean's mind so fiercely. Lady Toni Bevell and her pallid attempts at torture are the barest drop in the bucket. A blip. That Dean took it so seriously, that he worried so much—

"Hang on," Sam mumbles, and drops a kiss on top of Dean's head and then rolls back, off the bed. He's disgusting. He scoops his towel off the floor and goes to the sink in the bathroom, wets a corner and mops up the smears of lube, the slimy trail seeping out of his ass. Ugh. He has no idea how Dean likes this.

When he comes out, Dean's dragged himself around on the bed, sitting up against the headboard with his knee pulled up against his chest. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back against the wall, and he just slits a look under his eyelashes when Sam plops down right next to him.

"My ass hurts," Sam says. Dean frowns, and Sam leans his elbow on Dean's knee. "And I'm good with that. Because it's you." Dean's eyes open all the way. Sam shrugs. "There's a lot of bad crap that's gone on, man, and some of it—yeah, I haven't dealt with." Dean's face turns away. Truths sometimes hit him like that. Well, too bad, because more are coming. Sam leans back, hooks his hand around Dean's calf. "There's never been anything that's happened to me that got worse because you were there."

"Yeah, I'm a friggin' panacea," Dean mutters.

"Panacea?" Sam says, and Dean shakes his head, but Sam squeezes his calf and then says, "Actually—yeah. Yeah, that's not far off. You and me, that's what works. And when you're not here nothing gets better, so. I need you to be here."

Dean swallows. "Yeah, okay," he manages, and if it's a little thick, well, Sam's not going to say anything about it.

"Okay," Sam says. Dean stretches out his leg and Sam leans in, takes the kiss even if Dean's reluctant to give it up. A redo of half an hour ago. This time, he gets a taste of bitter tongue, Dean's hands finding his hair and curling in. "Better," Sam mumbles, and Dean huffs, tugs at his double-handful. "One more thing."

"What," Dean says, soft.

"Don't try to go all Dudley Do-right on me," Sam says. "It's not your look."

He gets a shove to the shoulder for that one and he sways back, doesn't care if Dean sees his grin. "Okay, that's the last time I ever try to spare your feelings, bitch," Dean says, and rolls his eyes, and he doesn't fight too hard when Sam yanks him flat on the bed again, looms over him. Dean folds his arms over his chest, trying for surly and not quite making it. "What happened to all that I need you talk, huh?"

Sam shrugs again, shoulders popped high. His chest feels light, a decade fallen away. "Right now I just need you to order me a pizza," he says. "I just want you for your fake credit cards. Sorry."

"Typical," Dean says, and his expression's so fond that Sam has to touch it, traces his fingers from the corner of Dean's eye to his jaw, to his mouth. Dean lets him, of course. Between them, they let each other get away with a lot. Dean tucks his hand behind his head, stretching out. "No way this town's pizza is gonna live up to what we had for lunch, though. Chinese?"

Sam hums, ducks in and kisses him, because he can. "Yeah, okay," he says. "Anyway. Big damn hero. I guess you get to pick."

The corners of Dean's eyes crinkle up. "Damn straight," he says, delight creeping back into his voice. "I killed Hitler."

One more kiss, Dean's taste under his tongue. Sam drags his thumb over Dean's cheek. "Yeah," he says, settling in. "You did."


End file.
